Situations
by All Galimatias
Summary: On the situations that occur when worlds overlap. A crossover of great proportions; currently including Good Omens, Sherlock, the Avengers and Doctor Who.
1. Chapter 1

It was like watching a car crash.

Actually, no, it wasn't, it was like being trapped in your car between a wild fire and a blizzard inexorably moving towards each other, and wondering even as you died in a terrible combination of first degree burns and frost bite, how nature, God, the general so-called order of the universe and anything that ever existed with any control over anything could have ever have been so careless as to let this happen.

That was what it was like watching Tony Stark and Sherlock Holmes 'talk'.

The Doctor added his own little branch of terrifying, which, when made obvious, kind of felt like it was always there, and simply needed other similarly petrifying people to bring it out. He was all the certainty of old age and passing time—like squeezing natural death into a human-shaped container and then making it grin like all the Christmases ever experienced by anybody had been dropped in front of him.

Weird and horrifying.

"This is brilliant. This is _brilliant._"

The three of them were playing a game. Sort of. They were actually playing a multiple of games. One of which was chess; each individual had two boards, and was simultaneously playing both of them against the other two participants.

Which sounded complicated enough, to a usual human, or, well, a usual sentient being to be politically correct according to the 212 clause of the Shadow Proclamation, but apparently it wasn't if you were the sort of man with a brain the size of a large planet, an ego a little bit bigger than that, and enough oxymoronic self-esteem issues to match an army of twenty-first century teenagers.

But for this combination of genius, only a multitude of complicated was acceptable. Hence the Risk (where the Doctor seemed to have the advantage), Monopoly (here it was Tony, who apparently had a vicious streak a mile wide when it came to real estate) and Cluedo boards (the obvious looked on the brink of flipping the board) that they were 'playing' together on. Then there was the Chinese checkers, Backgammon, Battleships, Connect-Four that were all set up in pairs in one long line that the three of them were scrambling to reach, with the chess sets and a game of Go Fish on top of it all.

"Absolutely brilliant, I've never met humans this clever."

"He's not clever," Tony snapped, and John could _hear_ Sherlock's temper ignite.

"Excuse me?" the consulting detective demanded, voice low and even, eyes icy.

"You're not," Tony maintained, his eyes burning as the glared back.

"Pray tell how you have come to that conclusion? I'm sure the logic of it will entertain me."

"Four kings," said the Doctor happily, putting the cards down with one hand as he put up a hotel on Fleet Street with the other. "That's interesting, actually, we once met four kings, didn't we Ponds, on—"

Beside John, Amy made a small, non-committal noise as she watched Sherlock and Tony engage in a vicious property war, at the same time as start a fight in Asia, punctuated by Sherlock being put into check.

"You've no qualifications, you don't have a job—"

Silently Steve wondered when this had become Tony's criteria for intelligence; usually Sherlock's—could he call it entrepreneurial?—flair was the sort of thing he appreciated in a person.

"You've never made anything—"

"Your creations have proven to be hugely substandard to the technology of the rest of the universe," Sherlock replied waspishly, possibly alluding to the introduction of their twenty first century minds to Gallifreyan technology two hours earlier and Tony's subsequent tech-orgasm face. "I don't see why you're so keen to broadcast your own inferiority in your chosen area of supposed intellect. I am unparalleled in my field."

"Sherlock…" John warned.

"I'll tell you something that's an inferior area—" Tony said emphatically, staring pointedly at Sherlock before letting his gaze drop away from his face.

"Tony," Steve said, sounding world weary as Sherlock noticeably stiffened.

"Oh," the Doctor said, sounding crestfallen, as the two bickering men simultaneously put him in check mate. He made himself feel better by beating both of them at Connect-Four.

Oblivious—or possibly just ignoring the Time Lord—Sherlock brutally knocked Tony's queen off the board. His lips twitched slightly in a way that clearly represented an all out sneer.

Tony took out one of Sherlock's battleships in four successive coordinates, and put down a hand of Jack's opposite the Doctor's Kings.

"I know at least four Jack's too," the Doctor said. "Captain Jack Harkness, you remember him Pond, he—"

"No I don't," Amy interjected, "Who's he?"

"Oh, right, yes, you haven't," the Doctor said, an expression of horror washing briefly over his face. "Rory," he said, pointing at the exasperated looking man sitting next to Amy, "Be grateful."

"Right," replied Rory, raising an eyebrow. The Doctor started sending his little blue troops into North America, loosely held by Tony's red-coloured men, and against Sherlock's black mass of plastic in Europe. The pair rolled against him on auto-pilot with the same attitude adults have when playing against small children, and didn't seem to notice that they were losing ground.

"Queen me," Tony said triumphantly, and Sherlock beat him in Chinese Checkers.

"Let's not do this again," John said softly to Steve. "No offence."

"None taken," Steve whispered back.

"I've had assassins monitoring my house," John lamented after a few moments pause. "I've been kidnapped by the Chinese mafia. This puts more fear in my heart." He waved a vague hand at the scene in front of them. The Doctor had won Go Fish and both of his Battleship games. Sherlock and Tony had all their focus on the chess game, which by all natural laws should have been a lump of coal under the pressure.

"I have assassins living in the same house as me," replied Steve in much the same tone. "And this—Actually, I'm not sure which is more scary. But that it compares at all is not good."

John hummed his agreement. Rory mouthed 'assassins' at Amy, who shrugged.

"Is it legal for you to be carrying that?" Steve asked after a few seconds pause, gaze sharp even though the question came out in a faintly awkward rush, glancing at the faint bulge in John's coat.

"The gun?" John said evenly. "No, I'm afraid not."

"You should try a sword."

Both of them looked at Rory, derailed momentarily from the illegal handgun. The man looked slightly embarrassed, but shrugged with a smile.

"There are fewer laws about swords. And people don't expect them."

"You can use a sword?" Steve said blankly.

"Very well," Amy said, grinning.

A sudden burst of humming from the direction of the three dark-haired men on the floor diverted their collective attention.

"Sherlock," John said with frank disbelief, "Are you really going to act even more like a five year old?"

"It's a patriotic song, John, I thought you'd approve."

"Ja-wn," Tony mimicked. Sherlock recommenced 'God save the Queen'.

"That is a shit song," Tony said loudly.

"Yes," Amy said with a nod. When the Doctor and Rory looked at her, she tossed her head. "Sixth verse?" she prompted, as if it should be obvious.

"Don't encourage them, Amy," the Doctor whined.

"I encourage you," she pointed out.

"Who's strong and brave, here to save—"

"The line, Tony, you've crossed it," Steve said, getting up and stomping over to where the genius was sitting to pull him up; as he did so, one of Tony's feet caught the chess board and sent all the remaining pieces everywhere.

"You did that on purpose!" Sherlock accused.

"I did not!"

"Thank you for having us, Doctor," Steve said loudly as John stepped round him to put a placating hand on Sherlock's arm. "If you could put us back in our century though, I think everyone's getting a bit over-tired."

"But I won the most games," the Doctor said, looking disappointed.

"So?" Amy said, as they all looked at the array of boards. Tony's expression was a picture of undisguised distraught as the truth of his competitors words became apparent; Sherlock's cool façade flickered into one briefly thunderstruck before he sniffed and looked away.

"Whoever won the most games gets three hundred base units of their preferred currency, providing that this is equal or superior too three hundred American dollars, the value of which taken post-inflation 2010," the Doctor rattled off, tilting his head up in a confident smirk as he clearly mimicked either the detective or the inventor's arrogance preceding the game. No one dared ask whose, and the Doctor cast a beseeching look at Amy.

"Why 2010?" Rory asked, and was ignored.

"How did you win?" Tony said, sounding astonished.

"If you'd been playing more attention to the broader game—"

"You lost too."

"On the contrary, I came second, as after the Doctor I—"

"You can both pay up," John said firmly. "And stop acting like idiots."

"Steve," Tony tried.

"You were gambling, Tony, how do you expect me to react?"

"It's not gambling, Steve, it's—"

"It's rather sweet, actually, the way you seek constant reassurance as to your behaviour with a professional colleague."

Tony looked at him for a second, both eyebrows disappearing into his hair line. "The retort to that is so obvious that even if you didn't supposedly make a living from being a private detective you should see it. I'm going to make it anyway, because you really need how stupid you are reiterating to you because you're not told enough. You can't talk," he said, leaving a noticeable gap between each syllable, "You have John."

"What?"

"_Consulting_ detective, you ignorant man."

"Doctor, could we actually just open the doors now?"

"We're in flight at the moment, actually, so it's not really a good idea—"

"In flight is fine."

"John—"

"Steve—"

"Amy—"

"No, Doctor, you can't drop them out into the universe."

"I've been out in the universe before, not even this one, if I had my suit I could—"

"Are you sure it wasn't just some of drug trip?"

"Okay, Doctor, pushing them out is fine."


	2. Chapter 2

It was still dark outside. Which, to be fair, wasn't much of an indicator as to the time, as it was winter and it was England and therefore it was dark quite a lot of the time. More specifically, it was six in the morning, dark outside, and someone was knocking at the door.

A martyr to civility, Aziraphale eased himself out of bed and pulled on his dressing gown before walking out onto the landing. With the air of someone with considerable practice at navigating staircases piled high with what could possibly be the contents of the Bodleian library, Aziraphale made his way down the seventeen steps to the building's front door. One hand on its handle, he turned back to the room with a faintly disapproving look. It shamefacedly dusted itself and started to smell faintly of citrus fruit. Satisfied, he opened the door.

It was one of his neighbours from the house next door; they had never actually been formally introduced, but had come to know each other's names through the ritual of returning incorrectly delivered post.

"Good morning, John," he greeted with a smile. "This seems to be becoming a habit."

John was looking about as sheepish as Aziraphale's hallway, which wasn't really fair. When it was first constructed, the hallway hadn't expected to have to clean up after its inhabitants. The one next door didn't need too.

"I know. Sorry."

"Not at all, do come in," Aziraphale replied mildly. "What has he done this time?"

"He's going on about needing salt," his guest said with a huff of exasperation. "And he's not asked for sodium chloride, so he doesn't want it for one of his experiments—as far as I can tell he's just throwing it about. It's in all the doorways, on the windowsills…"

"I see. Well, I'm not entirely sure how much we've got, I'm afraid. We don't really have much cause to use it; Crowley's not fond of salty food. I'll check for you, though, if you've got a moment."

"Thanks," John said, stepping further inside and shutting the door behind him. He looked about briefly as Aziraphale started to climb back up the stairs. "It's like déjà vu coming in here," he commented, "The lay out's exactly the same as next door. How's Mrs Turner keeping?"

"Oh, she's fine. Very well, actually, she's on holiday at the moment." Better than very well, really, but Aziraphale tended to have that affect on people living in the same building as he did.

"Don't mind the mess," he said cheerfully, but in only a little louder than a whisper as they entered the kitchen. There weren't any dirty dinner plates or cutlery to speak of, but an impressive array of used mugs containing the last abandoned dregs of coffee, tea or hot chocolate. A few empty wine bottles were arranged into a wonky pentagram on the table.

His gaze landing on it, John tilted himself forward slightly to get a better perspective on Crowley's wry artistic efforts and raised an eyebrow.

"Ignore that," Aziraphale suggested.

John's eyes met his for a second, and then he shrugged from where he waited in the doorway. It was one of the things Aziraphale liked about him.

Starting to open up cupboards at random, Aziraphale turned his back as John sat down at the table with the easy familiarity of a frequent guest. Feeling the beginning of a smile fade, Aziraphale frowned as he brushed aside an unopened jar of paprika. It was entirely to be expected that they had no salt, but it was one obscure request of Sherlock's that he really didn't want to have to deny.

His fingers twitched slightly in the cupboards.

"Is it rock salt or table salt he's after?" Aziraphale asked, producing two containers from the cupboard and offering them out.

"No idea. Would it be alright to borrow both? I'll bring back whichever he doesn't need."

"You can have both, don't worry about bringing it back," Aziraphale said firmly. "And no talk of paying me this time, my dear, we're neighbours."

"If you're sure," John said, returning Aziraphale's smile in that unconscious way people tended too.

"Not a problem," said Aziraphale graciously. "You had best be getting back to him, then."

"Yes," John agreed, casting his glance up at the ceiling with a world-weary expression. "Before he poisons himself or the water supply."

With that strange little twist of his lips that Aziraphale was fairly sure John didn't realise he did when thinking about his absent flatmate, the man saw himself out of the house salt in hand.

Aziraphale went back into his bedroom and returned his dressing gown to the hook on the door. Shivering slightly, he got back into the bed and curled up slightly on himself as he shifted to get comfortable.

As soon as he stopped moving a pair of arms snaked around his waist, and Crowley didn't so much pull Aziraphale closer as gravitate towards him. Having single-mindedly rebuffed all of Aziraphale's attempts over the last two decades to get him to sleep alone ever since he'd had realised that, while comfortable on its own, a bed is infinitely better when it's warm, Crowley had taken to sleeping in Aziraphale's. Being cold-blooded, it was something that he'd missed out on for a good six thousand years. Crowley did not intend to waste any more time.

"Was it the bastard from next door again?" he asked, voice fighting its way up through layers of sleep.

"It was John," Aziraphale said reproachfully.

"It's basically the same thing, with those two," Crowley replied, a hiss creeping in around some of his words as, curiosity stated, he drifted back towards unconsciousness.

"Mm," was the non-committal response. Casting a thoughtful look at the wall dividing his building from the one next door, Aziraphale absently started to trace patterns on the back of one of Crowley's hands. The latter's breathing evened out into nothing as his unconscious body forgot to breathe, and Aziraphale, needlessly, held the hand beneath his own a little bit tighter.


	3. Chapter 3

It was strange. Usually bookshops welcomed her with open arms, called to her from across the street, but this one clearly didn't want anything to do with her. It wasn't the dark exterior—the shop didn't have a name and one of its windows were boarded up—it couldn't be, she'd seen places in worse conditions and the lure of books within had always overwhelmed the lesser instinct to run away.

But this shop was practically _glaring_ at her. Meggie glared back at it, rocking back on her heels just a little.

"Are you sure this is the right place, Mo?" she called back over her shoulder. Her father looked up from where he was locking their van.

"Yes," he replied unhesitatingly. "This is it. Do you have the book?"

Meggie nodded, hand dropping to rest on the satchel by her hip as she continued to eye the building. She pulled her hand back up again quickly, burying it in the crook of her elbow as she hunched up against the cold.

"Come on," Mo said encouragingly, bumping her shoulder gently as he walked past her. "It's not as bad as it looks, promise."

She trusted him, but it was the cold and the drizzling rain that moved her forward fastest. Mo held the door open for her and Meggie hurried inside, stopping as soon as there was space for Mo to come in behind her. The shop smelled of damp, and was almost the temperature was almost as close to freezing as it was outside, but the books made up for it. Smiling, Meggie glanced up at Mo for permission to go further in and moved straight to the nearest book shelf at his nod.

"Mr Fell?" Mo called as Meggie brushed her fingers down the cloth bound cover of a copy of '_Scouting for Boys'. _

Meggie glanced around, and froze. There was a desk against the wall opposite her, crammed in between two shelves and three stacks of dark, dyed-red leather books. The room was oddly shaped in the best sort of way, with uneven flooring and strange lighting, and she hadn't been at an angle to see it before. It differed from the rest of the room in that it wasn't over-piled with books—there were four neatly stacked on one corner—and it was immediately obvious why.

A snake sprawled in great coils across mahogany wood, pitch back and gleaming. Meggie couldn't tell how long it was, but it looked like it could easily wrap several times around the table it was laying on. And then crush it to splinters. Frozen where she stood, Meggie didn't breathe as she stared at it. A second later— Meggie wasn't a slow child—she breathed out as she saw the space heater sitting on the table next to the snake and realised the creature was asleep, bathed in what had momentarily seemed an unholy red light. Now it just looked warm, and a little tempting.

"Sorry, Meggie," Mo said, wincing as he followed her gaze to the snake. "I forget about him. He belongs to a friend of Mr Fell's.

"Shouldn't he be…" Meggie was going to say 'in a cage', but that was the moment that the snake lifted its head and _looked_ at her.

"We're closed—" someone said from a room adjacent, just as Meggie took an automatic step back and fell over a pile of books.

"Are you okay?" Mo asked, at her side in two long steps, helping Meggie to her feet.

"Are the books okay?" said Meggie in response, worriedly crouching down again, ignoring the ache in back and elbows where she'd hit the floor.

"I should hope so," the someone said, revealing themselves to be a blonde man with a rather severe expression that cleared as soon as his gaze landed on Mo.

"Mo Folchart!" he said, sounding delighted. The room seemed to light up; literally, the dark shadows receding from the wooden floor, which looked less dusty than it had a moment ago, the smell of damp and neglect fading and room felt warmer.

Meggie blinked, looking at Mo to see if he'd felt the difference. Apparently he had not, smiling without batting an eyelid at the shop's sudden transformation, walking forward with a hand outstretched to meet the bookshop owner.

The snake on the table grinned at her.

"Mr Fell, yes, it's been a while."

"Ezra," Mr Fell corrected his eyes bright as he shook Mo's hand enthusiastically. "It's wonderful you're here, I just recently had a book that's in the most dreadful condition—"

As Meggie watched, the snake rolled its eyes and settled back down into its coils.

"I'd be happy to look at it, but I was here for a reason," Mo said, gently interrupting Ezra Fell with the tone he always used when guiding a conversation with an over-animated bookkeeper.

"Oh yes?" Ezra said, sounding interested.

Meggie recognised her cue and, tearing her eyes from the dozing serpent, took the book from her bag and passed it to Mo.

"This is my daughter, Meggie," Mo said by way of introduction, and Meggie smiled uncertainly. Ezra Fell beamed back at her before turning his attention to the book in Mo's hands. "She's the one who found this, while we were in Switzerland."

The book changed hands again.

"_Pseudomonarchia Daemonum,_" said Ezra, sounding interested but confused. As he said the name, Meggie rolled her shoulders anxiously, on an inner reflex, without really noticing. On the desk, the snake shifted. Mr Fell moved towards it absently, running a hand down its coils. "I'm not sure exactly what it is," Mo said, apparently unaffected. "It's not a copy of the original appendix, it's been supplemented." "I can see," Ezra agreed, weighing the book with one hand. "By several hundred pages, I wouldn't doubt." Mo shrugged. "I've not really looked at it, it's not really my area of expertise. But I remembered you mentioned that your friend Anthony was interested in demonology—" here the snake let out a soft hiss that sounded amused, "—And the man who owned was giving it away. Very keen to be rid of it, I think, there's not a lot of market in demon books at the moment." "Not this one, certainly." The blonde haired man put the book down on the table, carefully, and the snake roused itself languidly, to slide with supple strength across the table and onto the book. "Well, it was very kind of you to bring it all the way here." "Well, I was wondering if you could do me a favour. I've been looking for a book, for a while now actually, I'm not sure why I've not asked you about it before…"

Meggie tuned out, turning towards the nearest shelf. She was aware that neither of the two adults was paying her any attention, but she didn't particularly mind. The books were calling.

"Yes, I think I did have it. But that was several years ago, you see, there was a fire here—"

"A fire?"

"Yes. A friend helped with the reconstruction and managed to save the majority of my books, but there was some that were overlooked."

Mo sighed, a heavy exhale of unhappy air, and Meggie turned her head away from the copy of Alice's Adventures in Wonderland at the sound.

"Mo?" she said, concerned, putting the book back down.

"It's nothing, Meggie. Thank you anyway, Mr Fell."

"Not at all, and if I hear anything of it I'll let you know."

"Thank you, I'd appreciate it. Do you see anything you'd like, Meggie?" Mo asked. Meggie caught a quick glimpse of the expression of Mr Fell's face and shook her head rapidly.

"No, I'm fine."

"Okay, well, you go to the library we saw, or the van if you're bored, I'll be with you in a few minutes; I'll have a look at this book of yours now if you like, Mr Fell."

Meggie nodded and spent a few more minutes inspecting the books. She half wished that she hadn't, as there seemed to be a number of children's books, unusual for a dusty old shop of this sort, but something told her Mr Fell's reception of them next time would be much less warm if they attempted to actually buy something. That at least was usual for this kind of bookshop, or at least this kind of shopkeeper. She was familiar with them, you learned to categorise the customers in Mo's line of work, and there was always a certain emphasis on the 'keeping' part.

When she eventually turned away and started towards the door, both Mo and Mr Fell oblivious to her quietly slipping by them, Meggie's eyes fell once again on the snake sprawling on top of the _Pseudomonarchia Daemonum_. The snake winked at her. Next to her on the little table by the door, there was a fruit bowl that she hadn't noticed when she'd come in. Seized by the sudden duel compulsion to leave and to grab a green and red apple from the bowl, Meggie did both in one surreptitious motion, taken a quick bite as she walked from the shop. An odd place, definitely, but she'd seen stranger and was proud of it. In minutes she was preoccupied with the escapades of the tiny Arrietty , and Mr Fell and his snake are put out of her mind.


End file.
